


The Orchestra

by Sgeulaiche



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Like immediately Post Reichenbach), Medical Procedures, Other, Possible medical inaccuracies, Post Reichenbach, morgue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgeulaiche/pseuds/Sgeulaiche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Molly's point of view: faking your own death has consequences, and not just in the long run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Orchestra

The morgue was unaccustomed to the sound of breathing, light and strangled or otherwise, inside it’s cold, sterile walls and objected to the sensation of life by making it’s features—it’s lights, it’s floors, it’s instruments—particularity harsh. Molly attempted to calm the beast, her footfalls light and bouncy as she paced and hummed to herself, like a young mother to a tyrannical baby: two parts soothing the baby, one part soothing the mother. Warmth—concentrated warmth on her left shoulder. Molly smiled softly, the corners of her mouth upturned begrudgingly. That engagement ring that made her thrash around her flat in frustration, those rosy, stubby fingers that rested heavily on her thin cardigan belonged to Sylvia Priget, nee Smith. “Moll,” She began, her voice simpering and oversweet with condolence and sympathy.  “I can take this one—I know you were friends and this is a hard time for you, so if you want-” Molly’s “no” was almost too enthusiastic. Sylvia looked a little confused, her head tipping to the side. “I-I’ll be fine. Just another stiff, really; no need to be worried. Besides, isn’t your hen thing tonight?” Sylvia smiled in defeat—she hadn’t thought she’d mentioned the party in front of Molly, who was, almost without saying, not invited.  Sylvia dithered for words for a moment, before realizing there was little to no disappointment on Molly’s face. Satisfied, Sylvia squeezed Molly’s shoulder and scampered off.  That was a little more painful than she expected.

Molly shoved off the counter and began the rituals—hand washing, glove donning, tool finding. “All autopsies are different,” she quoted a speech she gave once, the unnerving feeling of a hundred sets of eyes watching her washing over her again—but this one was really chalk and cheese.  She was entirely aware of what was happening; they had orchestrated it “together”. Sherlock wrote the music and she performed (most spectacularly, she had to admit) for a heavily sedated audience of one. Her instruments—scalpels, needles, thread, skull chisel—sang and were, for one moment, beautiful. But this knowledge did not satisfy Miss Molly Hooper, and was not enough to prepare her for the calculated sound of gnashed zipper teeth pried apart, for engineered broken skulls and capillaries, for the living dead.

...

“I need you.” Molly’s lips turned just slightly, her eyebrows knitting together. She reached behind her for a steel gurney to hold on to, to keep her upright. Sherlock was anchored and steady, as always. She’d been waiting for something like this for only God knows how long—but like this? “W-what do you need?” She said, her feigned bravery on her face. He explained, she drowned.

“I’m sorry, again?”

“Dear God, Molly! I need you to help me disappear.”

“Sherlock, d’y’know, I think that’s really illegal and I could lose my job and-”

“You sound like Mycroft. Or Mummy—honestly they’re the same thing.”

“I’m serious. I cannot, a-and I will not.”

“Did you change your fringe? It makes your face look very pleasant.”

“That’s not going to work on me again. My answer is final.”

Molly folded her arms and tipped her head up—a physical display of her assumed victory. Sherlock studied her for a moment, the corner of his mouth upturning just slightly—a smirk. A little more movement, muscles tightening and slackening as needed, the corners of his eyes crinkling like so much paper—a smile. Noise ripped and rumbled through his chest and throat and tumbled out of his mouth, teeth and lips two sets of parallel lines—a laugh, or better yet, laughter. “And what is so damn funny?” Molly said, absolutely flustered—maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was the rumbling in her stomach that reminded her this had been a ten hour shift, and she hadn’t taken lunch, maybe it was the red filtering into her face like people through a crowd as her eyes became fixated on his mouth. “You haven’t figured out that I’m going to die either way. I have to. I can either be gone, permanently, or just temporarily.” She could tell when he was babying her; it irked her to no end. “W-why do you have to be—I just don’t understand.” “You understand perfectly, Molly, you’re just too stupid to notice!” He barked, his eyes narrowing, his nose scrunching. Molly’s arms tightened around her, shielding herself from the shockwaves of the insult, reverberating through space until there was no more, some fourteen billion light-years away. Sherlock composed himself—some ridiculous colloquialism the matriarch used to say about catching more flies with honey than vinegar—he didn’t need flies; he needed Molly to help him fake his own death. “I sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” Molly’s mouth was agape as she stared at him. He was so human, so tangible—like she could reach out and touch him. He pushed his coat sleeve up, his eyes focused on his face of his watch as it ticked away—how funny time seemed to a man who was going to have to tack “the late” onto the front of his name. “We have some time before the procedure, and I know that Quavers are little more than air. Dinner, then?” He said, his quick, jovial steps nearing the door. “But I haven’t agreed to—Damnit!” Molly said, aloud and, apparently, to herself.

If pressed for an answer, Molly would have to say that lunch was pleasant. If death could not humble the great Sherlock Holmes, it made him just human. He chattered, dithered even, as they slogged through a frankly upsetting cafeteria meal. “So unreal,” she mused to herself when he recounted to her John’s failure to index the socks properly or gossiped about Mrs. Hudson’s ill-fated romance. Sherlock, with antiquated elegance, patted his lips on a shamefully thin paper napkin. “Right then, I think it’s time.” Molly looked into her minestrone for an answer or an out—either would work, but neither came. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, standing and donning her lab coat. “let’s then.”

She dimmed the lights as much as she could—just a solitary bank of hissing fluorescents lit her way. It seemed almost sensual, his coat, scarf and shift draped over the back of her chair, his shoes empty under the desk, his body vulnerable on a slab. Molly drew her lips into a thin, hard line. “A-and you’re sure this will be okay? I won’t lose my job and you won’t—you know…”  His eyes, which had been blissfully shut, rolled open, dilating under the harsh light. _Not human_ , her mind railed, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. “Moll,” He said—a nickname? To soften the blow of his simplified explanations?  To be cute? Witty? Friendly? Heaven preserve Molly Hooper. “I’ve been at this little game for a long while. I know how to fall from a great height. I can slow my heart rate, reparation rate, even my digestion. I’m not going to die, I promise.” Sincerity—something Molly was not prepared for. “Well then, a mild sedative and I-I’ll begin.” She said as she cleaned the injection site—left arm. She watched as she tied off his arm, the past flickering before his eyes, the dappling of pin-prick scars becoming more and more visible. Molly’s eyes flashed disbelief as she watched the history of abuse—she could read it with her finger. Gently, even so gently, Molly pushed the needle into living skin. The arm seized, his right grasping her free wrist. “Molly, Molly Hooper—not a word to anyone. Not a coworker, not Lestrade, not Mrs. Hudson and definitely not John. Understood?” Molly nodded; she could see the drugs setting in, his face becoming more and more calm and slack. “And my own Molly,” He started, his words somewhat slurred. “Thank you.”

...

            Molly’s eyes blinked open, her fingers grasping the zipper of the body bag, or trying to. Was she ready for this? She knew, regardless of how much of a stunt-man he fancied himself; Sherlock would be out of sorts, to say the least, when he finally came to. Aside from needing stitches, or, more apt, re-stiches, his skull, a handful of ribs, and probably a limb or two would need to be reset. He’d probably be black and blue. He was going to have a hell of a headache.  “Deep breath, Hooper.” She muttered, doing as she instructed. She pulled the zipper down in one quick, smooth motion, like pulling off a bandage. The noise that left her was not human. The body was not human. She staggered back, gripping the counter to hold herself up—she was not ready for this. The cleverly located and masterfully covered stitches had blown, just like they were supposed to, but it was so much more than that. The cheekbone was fractured, allowing for the entire left margo infraorbitalis to, more or less, float freely, held only by muscle, skin and sheer will. The skin was purple, like an over ripe plum. Molly mustered the strength and stomach to step forward, listening to his breathing—no fluid in his lungs, a good sign. She gently probed his arms and legs—left arm was broken in three—no, four—places. _Must have broken the fall…_ Right was intact, but there would probably be muscle strain from the impact. Legs were in good shape, but heavily bruised. Hips and groin were intact, she discovered, blushing as she lifted the little white cloth bodies were outfitted with for, what she assumed was modesty. He was alive—mostly. Molly cleared her throat to calm herself, busying her mind with measuring out another intravenous sedative—he’d wake up soon enough—right? She froze, the panic welling up: what if he was in a coma or worse yet, nonresponsive? Did she waltz over to the chief of medicine and explain that her corpse was still live, but brain dead? That beautiful, damnable, devious, brilliant brain, wasted. She could see it now—every University from Edinburgh to Bangkok pining for a slice, wining and dining the Holmes estate for just a taste of the brilliance, the mastery. Her stomach reeled, her jittery fingers setting down the needle, lest she pricks herself with it—actually, she could use a hit…

            Molly retired to a chair, running her fingers though her once neat hair. She struggled to open a bottle of water, trying to take her time with the “twist off” (push up) lid. “Damnit!” She said, her voice a mere susurrus, hardly audible over the buzz of the lights. She needed to talk to someone—damn the gag rule! He fingers dug daftly through her purse, looking for her mobile phone. John, she’d call John—he’d know what to do, what to say. He was always so nice, so comforting—that permanent furrow in the brow portraying him as a constant, attentive listener. Her finger almost pressed the call button, when the sight of John’s ghastly pale face, waiting in triage for medical, and probably psychological, attention, post fall came to mine. She saw him as she attempted to have a normal afternoon. She knew that everyone else, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Donovan and Anderson, would be here soon to make sure John got home safe, to make sure he had everything he needed or wanted, to make sure he’d make it through the loss of his best friend. Needless the say, the phone plunked directly back into the bag. Molly rubbed her forehead, checking her wristwatch. Time—what did it matter? She didn’t have any to wax poetic—sound filled the morgue: the muffled noise of stirring from sleep. Molly rushed back over toward the slab, readying the sedative. One eye, the “good eye”, flashed open—searing white and light blue. The broken mouth screamed, struggling to form words—but it was unmistakable: Sherlock screamed “Molly!”

            A quick jab, firm pressure on his whole shoulder, and Molly hovering over him, teeth clenched—Sherlock’s usable eye flashed frantically around the room, looking for something to focus on before it slowed, creeping shut. The screaming, the worst noise Molly had ever heard, finally stopped and he was still, breathing ragged, but still. It seemed that his built up tolerance to opiates had diminished since he was sober—good. Molly pushed her fringe back, straightening out her coat, letting the needle all from her hand, the plastic clattering on the floor. Is this what it felt like, to be Doctor Frankenstein? To breathe life into death? Molly stilled herself, furthering gathering supplies, cleaning up again. Phase two needed to begin if she were to have an ice cube’s chance and pulling this off. Focus, pure, unadulterated focus was needed. She threaded a needle and cleared her mind. She had to sculpt for him a new face, new bones the quick and dirty way—he had to build a new life. She tipped her head to the side, her scissors making meticulous cuts, her fingers supporting bones. The phone in his pocket chirped, she’d guessed, because the doors of the morgue were pushed open. Molly snarled, like a she-bear protecting her cub, but never looked up, bone shards dangerously close to the eye socket. “No access granted—can’t you read?” “I assure you, Ms. Hooper,” A male voice said, the tick-tick of dress shoes, the clip of something else (A cane? A walking stick?) nearing “I have all the access I need. And how is my brother?”


End file.
